


A Matter of Air

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Bodie peril, Gen, Suspense, partner worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many seconds left does Bodie have?  Doyle runs for all he's worth...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Air

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks for the beta to MOONLIGHTMEAD

A matter of air

by Allie

 

“He’s your partner! It’s your job to know where he is,” Cowley had shouted in reply to Doyle’s sullen murmur that he didn’t know.

A few hours later none of it mattered. A stupid argument, didn’t matter who’d been more of a bloody fool. After storming from a pub, he hadn’t been surprised when he didn’t see his partner the next day. He’d supposed bloody Bodie had taken it into his head to pout, to skive off work, perhaps call in sick. Even Cowley’s shouting hadn’t worried Doyle.

Till they got the ransom demand. “Twenty-four hours, twenty-four bricks of gold.” The world spun sickly out of control. Doyle couldn’t do the maths in his head. Murphy whistled aloud. “Bloody hell, that’s—”

“More than the CI5 budget can afford,” said Cowley. “Even if we did deal with ransom demands.” His eyes locked with Doyle. “Find him.”

It seemed Doyle had been running ever since.

Finally, a lucky break. Triangulation of where the first R/T call had come from. They’d taken Bodie’s R/T, used it for their demands. It wasn’t a perfect trace but a near one, narrowed down to a row of old houses. Sounds from over the R/T had indicated there was machinery working not far away, demolition of some sort. 

Teams were out. Searching for Bodie. Doyle as well.

_I’ll never fight with you again if you’ll just be alive._

_Bodie, if you’re not alive I’ll kill you!_

He ran.

The R/T rang as he was checking his third house. He fumbled, nearly dropped it, light-headed and dizzy. This could be the call. The call of his salvation or his doom. Of Bodie dead, or alive and safe from harm.

“Triple-think failed, Doyle.” Cowley’s accent sounded strong and rough in his distress. “We just received this message over the phone.” There was a click, and the taunting voice replayed, angry now.

“You thought you could fool me with bricks painted over with gold? You’re a fool, Cowley, and now your man will pay for it. You just wait.”

Cowley’s voice returned. “Keep looking, Doyle. They mean to kill him.” His words were stark with regret, dread—and acceptance. Cowley was used to losing agents. But Doyle wasn’t used to losing partners. One had been enough.

His R/T bleeped again. He thumbed the switch. “Yes?” he croaked, voice harsh. 

“Listen to this,” snarled the familiar, dreaded voice of Bodie’s kidnappers. 

He heard a choking sound. Familiar, even so distorted. Bodie had joked around about choking on Doyle’s cooking before. Only now it was real, real...

“That’s a rope round his neck. Listen to it, CI5. He’s standing on a chair. I’m going to kick the chair out from under him now. Listen to him die.”

Doyle ran. Wildly, into the next house. If he could find it—if he could.

He ran as fast as ever he had and still it wasn’t fast enough. _Choking... slowly... air denied from lungs... Bodie changing colour as he died, clawing at the rope, but no, his hands would be tied._

No!

Doyle ran.

Construction. Lots of building sites. The house could be bloody anywhere but he had only this one up ahead left before he ran out of houses he could reach in time.

He saw men in black leather jackets exiting fast from the mouldering, decrepit building. Before his conscious mind could even acknowledge the fact, he’d pulled his gun and fired, fired. 

The men pulling guns of their own fell. Perfect shots, well done, Doyle, copper’s pride. 

_Bodie’s mocking voice, secretly proud of his partner’s skill with a handgun...._

Bodie!

He raced inside, up the stairs, knowing without words where Bodie would be, terrified of the sight awaiting him and at the same time knowing he might not be too late, if he could only run fast enough. 

_Don’t go. Don’t leave me, mate. I’m sorry. I’ll go back in time, we’ll walk out together, stick together, nobody gets to you except through me. Yeah, mate. Please._

The steps were crumbling, the building falling down around its ears. Once large enough for balls, now so much near-rubble. Doyle ran up the steps past the first room, into the second, as if he’d known from radar where to go, right up to his partner who was dangling, choking but still struggling, still struggling, God bless him, struggling to get his hands free from behind his back, to breathe past a rope too tight. Dangling...

With an inarticulate shout, Ray ran forward, accidentally kicking something hard that went skittering off into the corner, grabbed Bodie round the legs and hoisted with all his might, all his strength. And heard the gasp, the  
heave of breath into Bodie’s throat, into Bodie’s lungs.

Bodie.

Doyle held him up with all his strength, no hands free for the R/T, no ability to call backup. Bodie gasped in lungful after lungful from his raw throat. Doyle’s legs shook with the effort, all his strength going to hold up Bodie. 

Bodie’s R/T lay across the room from Doyle’s kick, making a sputtering sound.

And Bodie gasped and breathed and lived, lived.

“Chair,” croaked an inhuman-sounding Bodie-voice. A knee thumped out against Doyle’s chest, hard. Doyle tightened his slipping grip. “Chair!” ordered Bodie.

A muddled brain still high on adrenaline finally put it together. A shuffling half step, a kick at the fallen chair with his boot, hooking it and pulling it nearer, Ray worked the chair up and closer till Bodie’s boots found purchase. 

Even so, Doyle couldn’t seem to let go for the longest time. 

“Hands,” croaked Bodie, recovering further with each ragged, gasping, burning breath. He twisted round on the wobbly chair, still in Doyle’s grip. He wriggled thick, swollen fingers in Doyle’s face. 

Releasing him slowly, but only with one hand, Doyle reached for the rope, then for his knife. He had to release Bodie with both hands now; he shook so hard cutting him free that he was lucky not to slit Bodie’s wrists.

Bodie yanked his hands loose, shaking off the rope impatiently before Doyle could untangle it. He reached up, jerked the noose free and off his head. “Down,” he ordered, reaching for Doyle with wobbly hands, resting them on Doyle’s shoulders.

He lowered himself, and Doyle carried as much of his weight as he could, helping him down.

“Call Cow.” Bodie swallowed hard, massaged his throat, and sat down with a thump on the wobbly chair. His face was blank of emotion, still mottled, his eyes staring with horror. He shook his head, blinked hard, rubbed his eyes on his palms and stayed like that, leaning forward as if trying not to be sick. Doyle could still hear each ragged breath. 

He should have a wisecrack, something to make it better. He had no words.

He tangled one hand in Bodie’s hair, not letting him go even for a moment, and thumbed his R/T with the other hand.

“Found him, sir. He’s alive.”


End file.
